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"In France, the Cap D'Agde allows it, as well as parts of Spain," a completely naked man named Sam* is informing me as we bake in 81 degree heat on top of an adorable bed and breakfast in Manhattan's Chelsea.

Rachel*, also completely nude, pipes up from the rose-petal scattered wading pool Sam set up for us, book in hand. "Here's something to discuss – what's an 'above the pants job'? The protagonist in this book really wants one."

We're on the lovely roof of the Cottage Inn, originally founded by Mel Cheren, known as "the Godfather of Disco" and an active member of the LGBT community, particularly in the form of HIV awareness. Before Cheren passed away of AIDS, he dictated that the Inn always remain gay-friendly and open to any affiliate queer-positive groups – and it remains one of the only places in Manhattan where people can be completely nude, both topless and bottomless, in public.

Sam, the co-founder of the group, is the only man present. Among the women in attendance are a student, a production assistant, a personal assistant, and an adult film actress – but it's also frequented by bartenders, baristas, burlesque dancers, and other occupations unlikely to be used to learn the letter "B" on Sesame Street. The age of attending people has ranged from 17 to 44.

"In Europe, this would be normal. I don't like that here, it's sexualized to be naked," Rachel tells me as she gestures around her. "It's not like this is sexy. We're just existing." The other girls nod.

It is a truth not universally acknowledged by, say, Jane Austen, but a truth nevertheless, that taking your top off in public is way easier than I thought it was going to be. Do you know how awesome it feels to take off your bra in direct sunlight? It's like getting a rim job from one of the cherubs painted on the Sistine Chapel.

Full disclosure: I have exposed my mammarian lady lumps to the elements once before, at a bacchanalian warehouse party in the depths of Brooklyn, after drinking too much champagne in a hot tub. (They offered more champaigne to anyone who'd take their boobies out.) What can I say, I was young (two years ago) and drunk (right now). The memory of trolling the Internet with greasy hangover hair the next day, searching nervously for photographic evidence, prevented any repeat offenses. So I felt it was only fair to balance one patriarchal, Girls Gone Wild-esque bare-boob experience with a SOBER, body positive, queer-friendly women's lib form of toplessness.

As we roast ourselves like rotisserie chickens – after slathering on the SPF 50 so as not to get burned on our most sensitive areas, oww — and munch on raspberry marshmellows and Billy's Bakery cupcakes, Sam explains the genesis of the club. A good friend of his — a woman who country-hops for her photography career — mentioned that her travels indicated far more comfort with the human body than we have in America. Sam works in publishing, so they decided it would be a nude book club, books provided by Sam, that met in public places. Often, they go to Central Park, but occasionally score a roof at the Inn, like today.

Among their fans is the iconic genre fiction novelist Elmore Leonard, who sent them free books and even requested a t-shirt with their logo – which they didn't have. "I made one up and sent it to him. Actually, I made five up and sent him all of them," Sam laughs.

"We thought it would probably be one of those one-off things," he explains. But the interest in the club has been growing by year. Friends, and friends of friends, are generally welcome because they're probably like-minded, but as word of mouth spread, Sam has introduced an informal screening process to keep out any potential pervy voyeurs. Not that the women can't hold their own.

"Sometimes you'll have a guy sitting a few feet away, but they eventually get bored. One of them pulled out a camera, and [the girl he was photographing] got right up in his face and took pictures of him."